


a necessary distraction

by more_than_melody



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Resolved Sexual Tension, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29644830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/more_than_melody/pseuds/more_than_melody
Summary: Following Hughes' funeral.or, there is more than one way to grieve.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75





	a necessary distraction

  
  


_Well I have brittle bones it seems_

_I bite my tongue and I torch my dreams_

* * *

  
  


“This was a bad idea,” she says.

Roy looks over at her, a stupid grin on his face. His hair is in disarray, light from the window a sliver across his cheek.

“It was your idea,” he replies, at least a little breathless.

She can't help grinning back at him. It feels good to smile like that.

“That doesn't mean it was a good one,” she says. Her body calls her a liar though. “I've made plenty of questionable decisions.” Her breathing is slowing finally, heart steadying in her chest.

“You don't hear me complaining.”

The mattress - no bed frame assembled yet – is on the floor beneath the window, surrounded by stacks of still sealed boxes. The books are unpacked, some of them anyway. They're stacked on the ground around them, full of bookmarks and scribbled pieces of paper. That's one trait he picked up from her father at least.

The pieces of their clothing are dark lumps on the carpet, little more than shadows in the dark.

Her own apartment looks much the same – unlived in, boxed up - but that is not unusual for her. She has never felt that any place she has lived is truly home – that word means so much more than a place when she tastes it in her mouth, mulls it over.

“What makes you think this is such a terrible idea?” he asks another long minute later, his voice calmer this time.

 _We're never going to be able to stop, that's what,_ she thinks.

“You're distracted enough at work,” she says, although distraction, tonight, was the point. “I'd hate to make that worse.”

He laughs.

Oh, that's such a nice sound to hear, after this very long month. It makes the darkness feel lighter, washes a week of long hours from her bones.

“I'll try harder to focus,” he says.

“I'm sure.”

She rolls over onto her stomach, pushes her thick hair back from her sweaty neck. It's nice having long hair, some days, but short hair was so much more practical. Especially now, in the tail end of summer when the days are so often sweltering and humid.

“Too warm?” he asks, still grinning.

She nods, swallowing.

He gets to his feet and opens the window over the mattress. A cool breeze gusts in, night air tainted by the city. It makes her miss the freshness of summer in the countryside where she grew up, the sweet grass smell on the air and the cool of fog rolling in, damp on her skin.

The sounds of the city outside come with the breeze – traffic and the faint sound of voices. Central is larger than East City and she has yet to get used to that. She's woken more than once in the past week to outside noise.

It's been years since he lived in Central but Roy doesn't seem to have had trouble adjusting to that change at least. It's a small blessing and these days, with Hughes dead and the stakes raised, she's counting every one.

“I'll be right back,” he says, oblivious to the drift of her thoughts. He disappears into the hallway. She hears noise from the kitchen – a few faint _thunks_ followed by a loud metallic clatter and an _oh shit_. Then the sound of a running tap.

A minute later he returns with two glasses of water. “I didn't break anything,” he assures her.

He settles back onto the mattress, sitting beside her and it sinks beneath his weight with a creaking of springs.

“Here.” He holds one glass out to her. It's cool and refreshing and she empties it in a few swallows. He drinks half of his then sets it aside.

Now the light from the window cuts across his shoulder, old scars turning silver where it hits. Some she is familiar with – the bullet wound over his shoulder blade, for example, or the one that cuts diagonally across his bicep. Others are new to her – two slashes against his ribs that she itches to press her fingers to, to become familiar with.

It's strangely comforting that there are still things for her to learn about him, still some things left uncovered after all these years.  
Fewer of them now though.

“Thanks,” she says when he takes the empty glass from her hand.

“Of course.”

Hesitating for a moment, he gathers her hair in his hand, gently enough that he doesn't snag his fingers in the tangles.

“It's gotten so long,” he says.

“I'm thinking of cutting it,” she says, a threat she voices at least once a week. She's not.

“If you want.”

Not _please don't, I like it this length_ , even though she knows he does. That's one of the things she appreciates so much about Roy Mustang – he has never tried to project his own expectations or desires onto her. Not like other men – other men are full of opinions on how she should be living her life or how she presents herself.

Especially military men.

Instead he leans down and presses a kiss to her shoulder, thumbs gently over the scar that stretches tightly over her shoulder blade. She has scars he's never seen too, but this one he knows, this is one he was there for the birth of.

She shivers as he brushes down along her spine and over her hip, presses his mouth to the back of her neck.

After a second he takes his hands away, stretching out beside her once more. His joints creak along with the bed springs as he moves.

“I feel old,” he groans.

“You're not even thirty,” she feels compelled to point out.

“Doesn't mean I don't _feel_ older.”

She does know what he means. Years of long days and old wounds and _scars_ accumulate quickly enough.

“You should go visit your aunt this weekend,” she says, already knowing his answer. “Give yourself a break.” It would do him good, she thinks. Chris Mustang provides a different sort of comfort, a different sort of home than she can offer him.

He opens one eye to look at her. “Only if you'll go with me,” he says.

“I can't do that, sir,” she says, although she would like to.

“Don't be like that.”

“Like what?” He gives her a look that says _we both know exactly what I'm talking about_.

He sighs heavily, folding his arms behind his head. “If you're working then I'm working.”

She doesn't push the issue.

“I'll pick up extra coffee then,” she says. “If it's going to be a long week.”

“It's always a long week with you there,” he says.

She elbows him in the side and he just laughs. She revels in the sound.

  
  


  
  


“I should go,” she says, sitting up. She checks the time on her watch – it's well after midnight. The sky outside is polluted with city lights but her body is aware of the time, even if the sky isn't.

He takes her fingers in his own, drawing her hand toward him. With the other he carefully undoes the little clasp on the leather band, setting the watch aside. His fingers linger against her wrist, trace faintly up her arm.

She gives him a look. “Just because I can't check the time doesn't mean it's not way too late.”

“I know,” he says.

He tugs her back down to the mattress, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and running his fingers absently over her skin. His body smolders alongside hers, his chest warm when she places a hand there, tucking her face into his shoulder.

She doesn't leave, yet.

  
  


  
  


“Not that I'm going to tell,” she begins, “but who in the office do you think won a bet tonight?”

“None of them,” he says immediately. She can feel his voice in his chest, thrumming beneath her cheek.  
“You sound sure of that.”

“I can't imagine any of them would bet in my favor, given the circumstances.”

She smiles, glad he can't see the expression on her face.

“It's not like Hughes -” He cuts the sentence off but it's too late – she feels the words catch in his chest and the rest of the sentence lingers in the air between them. He does not need to say it out loud for her to know what he means.

“He wouldn't believe a word of it,” she says, trying to keep the mood light. The funeral last week is casting a dark enough shadow.

It doesn't work.

His fingers on her arm still, holding tightly, digging into her skin. She pulls back so she can see his face.

A storm sweeps over him, flashing dark in his eyes. He has not looked this beaten since the end of the war.

She understands, really, she does. While she has long come to terms with the fact that her life may be a price paid in pursuit of their shared goal, he's never been willing to accept that. Not for her, or any one of them.

“It should have been me,” he murmurs.

As though they are back at war, as though his death can undo all the others.

“Oh no,” she says, “none of that.” She pulls him toward her, kissing him until they've both forgotten what he was saying, melding together in a fusion of limbs and mouths, a different kind of alchemy.

  
  


  
  


Is distraction the best tactic?

No.

  
  


  
  


Is it effective?

Unequivocally yes.

  
  


  
  


She almost says his name. _Roy_.

She doesn't. Still, it lingers in her mouth, like the name of a home she cannot claim. She wonders if he can taste it on her tongue, like citrus and fire, whiskey and smoke.

 _Roy_.

Still - that's one line they haven't crossed tonight, at least, and she means to keep it that way.

  
  


  
  


Some time later she extracts herself from their tangle of limbs and sheets to go to the bathroom, retrieving her shirt on the way. It's difficult to navigate her way across the unfamiliar apartment in the dark, moving haltingly between stacks of boxes and misplaced furniture.

The bathroom light feels harsh after the soft grey of the bedroom, highlighting the rings beneath her eyes and bleaching color from her skin.

There is plenty of work ahead of them and she is tired already – and not just from tonight. Travel for the funeral, and then travel back, and then packing and moving and traveling again and now a week deep in a new office, a new city, both noticeably hostile.

And all the while, Roy barely holding it together.

Small wonder she is exhausted.

“Give it time,” she tells herself, splashing water on her face and rubbing at her eyes. “You both just need time.”

To adjust, to grieve. This is nothing new for them. It will get better.

She dries her hands on her shirt and turns off the light. The dark is much more comfortable, easier on her tired eyes. The dark she has never been afraid of – it is the light that scares her, like a revelation.

  
  


  
  


He's closer to sleep when she returns, eyes half shuttered, breathing steady and even, blanket half tugged up over his hips. She folds his clothes, dresses in the rest of her own.

She sits on the edge of the mattress, cradles his face in one hand.

“I have to go,” she says, her voice soft.

They both have to be at the office in the morning and she needs sleep, a shower, a uniform. To take Hayate out and check the messages on her answering machine. Life doesn't stop moving just because someone stops living.

It doesn't stop for _this_ either, although the past few hours have felt like it.

He doesn't open his eyes but turns his head to kiss her palm.

“I know,” he mumbles against her skin. The breeze from the window ruffles his hair, raises goosebumps on his shoulder. “I'll see you in the morning.”

And he will, although not the way they would both like.

Unable to stop herself she leans down and takes one last kiss from his mouth.

She swears that it is her name – _Riza –_ that she tastes there.


End file.
